He was like everyone else once. He wanted the wife, two point five kids, the house, and the dog. He wanted the American dream. So he applied for a job at a small company, called Soap from Corpses Products. He was a biologist, a doctor, and was interested in how they turned corpses into soap without compromising the antimicrobial components.
He showed up for an interview in a black suit, white shirt, black “power tie” the sales woman had told me. He thought he would get the job, he was more than qualified, and he wanted to work with the company, so he could help the world. He stepped into the facility, which was rife with the smells of soap processing. The facility itself was very plain, nothing but plain concrete with a small sign that said “Soap from Corpses Products.” The smells of lye, ammonia, and rendered fat were pervasive. He was escorted to a small lab facility, where he met with a most unusual man.
He stood stock still. At first he must have thought it was a statue of a researcher who had contributed a large amount to the company, until it stood up from the microscope, and said to him in a mechanical voice “Hello Doctor Indrell. I am correct to assume that you are here for your job interview?” he nods, a bit unnerved by the slow monotone this man employed. “My name is Doctor Gears, follow me,” he walked quickly out of the room. He shrugged mentally, and followed him out of the lab into a stark white room, thinking nothing was wrong. Inside the room was a single other door, which Gears proceeds through. The door snapped shut behind him, and two large men in security uniforms emerge from the door that he came through, dragging a struggling man between them.
“What the hell is going on?!” he shouts at the guards, as they threw the man to the floor. The subject’s voice is quavering, begging the people holding him down not to hurt him. His stomach was turning. Doctor Gears’ voice emerges over an intercom. “Doctor Indrell, would you please remove the hood from the subject, and give me your observations,” he hesitated for a moment, and approached the shaking man, lifting the plain brown hood off his head. He stepped back a few feet, stunned by what he saw. The subject’s face was covered in small lesions, which were dripping an acrid brown substance. Looking down at the hood in his hand, the back was white, and only the front was brown. He adjusted his glasses, and took out a pair of latex gloves that he always kept in his pocket out of habit, putting them on shakily.
He knelt down, and studied the man quickly, and stood up, snapping the gloves off. “Degenerative tissue disease of unknown genus, consuming his epidermis, and sloughing it off; it’s being regenerated as chitin,” he said slowly and methodically to the intercom. He was calm as a spring morning. Nothing but a disease he told himself over and over. Nothing is wrong. They just wanted to test his medical knowledge. He tries desperately to rationalize what’s happening.. The door snapped open again, and Doctor Gears stepped forward, and extended his hand. “Welcome to the foundation,” he announced, and waited. Doctor Indrell tentatively took his hand, which Doctor Gears shook with a vice-like grip. “Wait, what do you mean welcome to the Foundation? What are you talking about?” Doctor Indrell shook slightly as the two guards escorted the man out, and another pair replaced them. “Wait, I never said I accepted the position! I don’t want any part of this!” He looks around desperately and nearly bolted, until two strong arms held him in place.
Doctor Gears looked at him impassively, “The Foundation accepted you, however. Congratulations, you’re doing a great service to mankind.” He walked out without another word, and the newest foundation “recruit” was dragged to the darkness of the far door. The faint smell of lye was still lingering on the hood clutched desperately in his hand.